


Sailor

by maurheti



Category: Generation Kill, Southland
Genre: M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Violence, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 08:06:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/937592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maurheti/pseuds/maurheti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes an anonymous Sailor is just what the doctor ordered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sailor

Cooper sits at the bar and contemplates his beer. Another day done. Some bad shit, some good -- and then there’s taming the rookie, which feels like it belongs in a totally separate category. Although this rookie? Pretty tame already, for the most part. Makes Cooper wonder what the fuck is hiding underneath all of that concentrated calm. Makes him wonder what it would take to make him lose some of that calm. Makes him wonder, not for the first time, why the hell he keeps thinking about Ben fucking Sherman so goddamned much in the first place. 

Cooper finishes off his beer, does another slow recce of the bar. Nothing here that interests him. He really does not want to go home, but whatever, there are a lot of things he really doesn't want to do lately. 

He slides off the barstool and makes his way to the door, ignoring the skinny guy who deliberately and suggestively brushes up against him instead of moving out of the way. Yeah. No.

Skinny guy is persistent, though, grabs his wrist, all "Wait, I'd like to buy you a...shit!" 

Cooper has broken the hold and has the guy's elbow locked up before the guy's mouth catches up with his brain. 

"Not. Interested." Cooper says, and smiles. It's not a nice smile, he knows; it's a smile that has razor-sharp edges and very little patience.

The skinny guy's eyes are wide and frightened, but what catches Cooper's attention is the sudden single-minded inspection he’s getting from the man who has just walked into the bar. Cooper lets go of the skinny guy, who immediately darts as far away as possible.

Cooper blinks. Muscled, confident -- arrogant! -- and standing in a way that shows an intimate familiarity with having to compensate for the weight of a weapon at his right side: this man has got to be military, obvious even if he is wearing faded jeans and a tight T-shirt instead of fatigues, and has a bandana covering his head instead of a helmet. Cooper grins. Yes, this. He sketches a salute.

The man’s cool gaze switches to something more predatory. “Don’t ask, don’t tell,” he says. 

“I’m not asking,” Cooper answers, “but I _am_ telling. Outside, now.”

The man narrows his eyes. “Really.” 

“Really,” Cooper answers, and sweeps his eyes up and then down the man’s body, lingering on his mouth, his groin. The man’s cock twitches. Gotcha. 

Two minutes later, Cooper’s got the man crowded up against a wall, hidden from the street, barely, by a couple of pickup trucks and a Dumpster, one hand holding him against the wall, the other palming his dick through his jeans.

“What are you, LAPD?” the man asks Cooper, his voice hitching just a little. Not quite as unaffected as he’d like Cooper to believe.

“Yeah. And you’re, what, Army?” 

The man inhales sharply, knocks Cooper’s hands away, and forces him up against the Dumpster. “Navy, asshole,” he answers. 

“Whatever. You’re still going to suck my dick.” 

The man huffs out a laugh and leans in, eyes sharp and amused now, hard bulge of his cock pressing against Cooper’s hip. Cooper grabs the back of his neck and licks his way into his mouth. What rookie?


End file.
